


When Things Take an Interesting Turn

by schlieren



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Joanlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlieren/pseuds/schlieren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes off one evening to prove a point to Watson. Romance is completely unnecessary when all one requires is the physical contact. This was the train of reasoning that Sherlock left with. You can imagine his amazement when Watson just won't leave his thoughts that night. Rated M for some smut. Joanlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> This is a new type of fanfic for me. I usually stick to mainly writing in the HP verse, but this came into my mind and refused to go away. This is my first attempt at *cough* smut *cough*. Be gentle! It's my first time. Criticism and critique is welcomed! As always, if you enjoyed this, please comment! you don't know how much I live on comments ;)
> 
> Without further aideu, please enjoy the story! Have a great day~

It certainly wasn't the first time Sherlock had taken a woman home; either to hers or the one he shared with Watson. It was, however, the very first time he had ever experienced a sense of guilt over it.

Tonight's experiment had begun when he and Watson had reached an impasse on their debate on the validity of one-night stands. He whole-heartedly believed that sex was nothing more than an opportunity to 'clear the plumbing', so to speak. He had evidence, testimonies, and several lovely points ready via power-point to illustrate the uselessness of a relationship to obtain a physical connection. However, despite all this, Watson still firmly stood behind her belief that you should love the person you're with.

This disagreement had started more than a week ago. Watson had quickly offered up the 'let's agree to disagree' solution. Instead, Sherlock had made it his mission to convert Watson to his side of the argument. It hadn't been until earlier that day, when Watson had slammed down the book she had been reading on the desk in front of her and demanded to know why he was pushing this on her.

To which, Sherlock had no answer.

Another first for the day.

This had spawned his escape for the evening; determined to prove his hypothesis to Watson. It had been at the pub where he had started to get his first stings of self-doubt, a feeling he was both unfamiliar to and highly uncomfortable with. He pressed on.

Usually when he was on the 'prowl' for lack of other words, it never required much effort for him to procure a partner for the night. Tonight it was proving to be rather difficult. He didn't have much in the way of requirements. The only thing he desired in his quest was someone he could obtain something he hadn't known beforehand. Usually it pertained to acts of the nightly pleasure. After obtaining his new-found sobriety however, night time adventures had interested him less and less. The thought that the last woman he had slept with had been an acquaintance of Watson's was one he had to push from his mind. Watson had no place in that particular collection of memories. Just as she also had no place in his actions for the night…except that she had precipitated his motions.

Deciding to make haste, lest his otherwise unmovable conviction be shaken, Sherlock picked out the first woman who made an impression on him and struck up a conversation. He did not hide his intentions. Nor did she reject his proposition.

Which led him to the situation he was currently in; pressing the girl against the wall of her apartment as her hands made deft work of his shirt. Like many of the woman he pursued for such activities, she was aggressive and clearly passionately set for the night. It wasn't until she had turned on one of the small lights in the entrance way and motioned suggestively for him to follow her to the bedroom that a very sudden realization fell upon him.

Sherlock didn't have a type; despite what Watson may have thought of him. Looks meant very little to him outside of the initial attraction. The only thing that had ever really mattered to him was intrigue. Not the passion, nor their bodily attributes or physical appearance, not the act of sexual actively (no matter the pleasure that was derived from it), and most certainly not romance. If a lady piqued his intrigue mentally, it was that which compelled him to delve further into them.

So, you could imagine his surprise when he was confronted with the reality that standing before him stood Watson.

Not his Watson, mind you, but it was very much clear that tonight he had subconsciously picked the closest thing that he could find. The woman stared at him oddly as he nearly tripped over a clearly visible end table out of shock. She was of Asian descent and stood perhaps a few inches taller than Watson. She was fit and lean, and carried herself with that same self-assured air that he admired in his partner. Sherlock shrugged off his revelation as he hurried forward as to not keep her waiting, but already he was feeling a cocktail of emotions that were unusual for him.

His first thoughts as he stripped the girl of her dress were anger. The fact that he picked a woman who reminded him of Watson would inexplicably skew his data. Deciding not to waste the night, even if it wouldn't contribute to his evidence, he pulled the long glossy black hair away from the nape of the girl's neck so he could nuzzle the crevice with his tongue; an act he had performed many times before. This time however, he couldn't stop his thoughts from wandering. The action led him to imagine just how Watson would have reacted to the act. This lead to his second thought of the night.

Confusion.

He had never consciously regarded Watson with any sort of deviant thoughts. She was someone of great importance to him, this was most certainly true. He considered her with the upmost respect and admiration. He would not sink to the lure of creating a sexual persona of her.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to convince his mind of the truth behind his thoughts; there was no one else he saw as he lay there in the bed with a woman he had met a mere hour ago. Her black almond eyes stared up at him with expectation and all he could see was Watson's smoky gaze. The soft skin he felt as his hands moved with her sides and hips became a proxy for what he could only imagine his partner's would feel like. In an instant, a new wave of emotions carried over him swiftly and fiercely.

Lust.

Whenever he had needed to release a certain amount of stress, he would search out a person who shared his sentiments and did not require any sort of extending attachment. Lust and strong desire were feelings that were normally absent. So, to the fact that he was not only experiencing these feelings was rare to Sherlock. Throw in that he was obtaining these emotional triggers from a mere envisioning of his partner? Peculiar beyond reason…even for him.

His bedroom partner took notice of his new found vigour with a smirk. She reached down and began stroking him, causing Sherlock to hitch his breath as the reality of the moment enveloped him.

He knew it was wrong. That is was in some perverse way dishonouring the trust he had in his partner and friendship they had built up. But at that very minute, none of his reasoning was reaching the logical side of his brain. Closing his eyes, the petite Asian woman beneath him on the bed transformed into an entirely different Asian woman. His vision was accurate from the odd white strand of hair that Watson worked so hard to hide, down to the left pinkie toe she had broken as a child and the toe nail had never grown in as result. The woman was so precise that he could have counted her freckles that peppered her nose, had the task fell upon him. Suddenly everything he did to the figure below him, he was doing to Watson.

Thoughts and reasons be damned, Sherlock disappeared into his delusions. He cared for nothing but to how he imagined Watson reactions would proceed. As he caressed her breasts and suckled the nipples into hard peaks, it wasn't the woman that he had arrived here with that he was enticing; it was his Watson that shuttered. The hand of his that crept down her body and played softly on the tender part of her thigh would cause her to wrinkle her nose ever so slightly; as if uncertain how to feel. A look of complete surprise would come to her face as he made his way down her flat, athletic stomach, trailing kisses until he came to a stop at the gentle parting of her legs. Her gasps of shock would dissolve into moans of pleasure with the odd, sharp intake of breath as his tongue was sent to the task of pleasuring her. His hands would be gentle caressing down the small of her back to the gentle curve of her buttocks. Carefully lifting himself up after her waves of pleasure had subsided, Sherlock once more left a trail of kisses up the girl's body, ending at the crook of her armpit. He stopped the woman from mimicking his ministrations.

Such a thing would ruin his illusion. Sherlock had never felt so conflicted with an action. There was no doubt in his mind that he was violating something important to their relationship. And at the same time, he couldn't have stopped it now if he had tried.

Instead, Sherlock lay on his back and guided her on top of him and placed his hands on her soft, slender hips and helped her to set the pace; all the while keeping his eyes closed tightly. He feared that any sight of the person he was actually with may damage his imagination of how he was perceiving Watson on top of him. His imagination certainly had its work cut out for it. Sherlock was picturing everything. The way her face would be and change with every motion; her eyes were half closed in pleasure, brow ever-so slightly furled in concentration, teeth biting down on her bottom lip, her body slick to the touch. She was working hard to avoid going over the edge.

Sherlock almost lost his concentration when the girl on top of him started whispering for him to go faster, harder, and other standard coitus exclamations. For some reason, he just couldn't imagine and overtly vocal Watson; even as he lay there in the throes of passion. There was only one word he could envision her saying. He noted the increase in pace. His illusion opened her eyes, just enough so she could see him, and stared down with a soft smile on her lips. Then, gently on her exhaled breath, she whispered 'Sherlock'.

Unable to abide it any longer, Sherlock gripped the hips of the girl as he came with an abruptness he hadn't been expecting. Breathing heavily, even he was surprised by the extremity his climax had been. The girl on top of him released a content sigh as she rolled off of him.

Moving to his side, she pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered the two of them. "That was unexpected." She stated in a voice that Sherlock could no longer pretend belonged to someone else. "I hadn't pegged you for that kind of lover." When Sherlock offered her no response, she simply placed a hand tenderly on his chest and proceeded to close her eyes.

Just as suddenly as his fantastical imagination had taken over, it now chose to reside back into the crevasses of his mind. Leaving him there, lying next to a woman whom the only link between her and his Watson was their shared ethnicity.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He couldn't. No words would come to his lips. No creative lies were coming into creation. No comforts, excuses, or escape plans presented themselves to him. So, in their absent, Sherlock remained silent; much as he had the entire course of their brief affair.

Waiting until she was sound asleep, Sherlock silently removed himself from her bed and gathered his things strewn across the floor. Leaving her no explanation or farewell, Sherlock simply left. Normally he would have left some sort of elaborate ruse in order for her to save face, but tonight he was rung dry. His thoughts had betrayed him on more than one occasion. Walking down the empty, silent streets of New York in the wee hours left Sherlock alone with his painful thoughts.

Since Moriarty he had been pleasantly left absent of any sort of romantic triggers. He had never thought nor cared for making any other sort of romantic connection. And yet, here he was…creating an elaborate fantasy involving the only other person he had ever felt connected to. He had, perhaps now incorrectly, perceived his relationship with Watson as purely platonic; as all relationship should be in his mind…should have been.

It was a long walk from the woman's home to his own brownstone, but on that night he welcomed the distance and the crisp night air as an opportunity to clear his thoughts. One of the thoughts he couldn't remove from his mind as he walked, was that it didn't bother him nearly as much as he reckoned it should have that he could not recall the name of the woman he had just been with to save his life.

Just as he was arriving home had he finally deduced that the night's 'experiences' had been nothing more than his mind's way of fixating on the debate with Jo-no…Sherlock stopped himself short of the steps and halted himself mid thought. The debate had been with Watson. He couldn't begin to assign her that familiarity. He feared of what it might do to him. It had been his debate with Watson that had fuelled his venture outside. He continued walking. He did not, nor had he ever possessed any sort of romantic affliction towards his partner.

Or so he had just convinced himself. The moment he had walked through the front door, he very nearly crashed into an oncoming Watson, all dressed up to go for her morning run. And with her, too came crashing down his resolve.

She certainly wasn't dressed in an attractive attire; shorts over a pair of woollen tights to protect against the chilly late autumn winds, a high ponytail and a thick knit headband, a sports shirt and a baggy windbreaker covered her torso. A standard fare for this sort of morning. He supported her by her forearms as they both regained their balance. Sherlock couldn't restrain the rapid rush of intoxication he felt from their sudden closeness in proximity.

Watson removed her headphones. "Hey." She smiled at him pleasantly. "I wasn't expecting you back from last night's escapades for another few hours. Did you have an early flight to catch?"

Sherlock knew she was teasing him. He had never hidden his sexual exploits from her; in fact he sort of relished parading them in front of her. Her rather Victorian views on sexuality were his mocking point for her. On any other day he would have had a witty retort to play back with, but today they too escaped him.

"I just didn't want to stay." He answered in a way that wasn't unlike sheepishness. If Watson noticed, it didn't show on her face.

"I'm about to go running," she stated, as if her outfit wasn't enough of an indication. "I'll be back in a few hours though. You should go and get some sleep. We can get some breakfast when I return."

"Breakfast would be lovely." Sherlock agreed. He felt as if he was talking through thick lips. What was happening to him?

A nod of affirmation was all that Watson granted him before she started on her way. Sherlock watched Watson jog away until she was no longer in view. He then escaped into his thinking space to approach and analyse his problem. After all, that's what this was. A problem. And all problems have to have a logical explanation and solution. Even peculiarities of the heart…didn't they?

It wasn't until Watson retuned nearly 2 hours later did Sherlock realize the futility of his actions. There was no solution to his problem. There wasn't even necessarily a problem in all honesty. One look at Joan as she walked into their home was evidence enough. He had unabatedly fallen for the only person he considered as a friend.

It was as pure, simple, and devastatingly complicated as that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's sudden revelation that he may no longer be viewing his partner in that strictly platonic way he may have once thought has shaken him to his core. Things that once came so utterly easy to him now plague him with insecurities. Is there any way he can solve the puzzle that he has made around himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the people have spoken! This story is getting a continuation. I wasn't able to bring together the complexities of Sherlock's issues to resolve in a single chapter, so there will be a few more to come. Also, no smut in this chapter. Simply deep realization as to what is going on.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented! This chapter would not have been written without you. (seriously...I spent the first two days after I posted the chapter obsessively going back and forth to check that people were in fact reading it. You're comments motivated me so much!)
> 
> Enjoy!

"I'm making tea." Watson announced out of the blue, as she stood up and stretched. She had just spent the last three hours poring over the same volume titled 'The Practical Guide to Cartography'. It wasn't Sherlock's most glamorous, or ironically 'practical' reading assignment to date, but she launched herself into it with the same gusto she always did. She glanced over to where Sherlock was sitting. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the collections of papers in front of him. "Would you like some?" She offered.

"Milk, no sugar. Thanks." Sherlock directed, lifting one of the sheets and preened at it until Watson had left the room. Once she was out of ear shot, Sherlock put the paper down and leaned back with a heavy sigh.

That had been too close.

Sherlock had thought that he had Watson's patterns better understood than that. She had very nearly discovered his starting at her from across the room. Sherlock had predicted that he would be safe to watch her for another 15 minutes before she would require a cup of hot liquid. Her abruptness had caused a bit of a start in him…so much in fact that he had been expecting her to offer him coffee, hence the request for milk. Sherlock drove down the heels of his palms into his eyes with a soft groan. Now his partner would surely surmise that something was up. He never took milk in his tea. Not even when he had lived in London. Hearing the soft sound of footsteps in the near distance, Sherlock hurriedly took the papers on his desk and replaced them with a set of puzzles in Arabic. He had let his language skills grow rusty and he needed the practice.

Plus, he didn't want Watson to see just exactly what it was that he had been examining ever so fiercely before. When she had stood rather suddenly, Sherlock panicked and had grabbed the first thing on the desk and made it appear to be of great significance. It was, in fact his copy of the mailing listing for upcoming exhibits to the Metropolitan Museum. Interesting as it may have been, it was certainly nothing that required his scrutiny.

When Watson returned with two steaming mugs and a suspicious look in her eyes, Sherlock knew that his aberration had not gone unnoticed. Placing down the now deemed appropriate sheet of paper, Sherlock accepted the cup from Watson's outstretched hand with a nod and a grumbled 'thanks'. He kept the grimace from his face the best he could when he saw the creamy surface.

Watson watched his discomfort with a certain air of mirth as she sat down on the arm rest of the couch. "So…" She addressed him slowly, running her finger along the rim of her own cup of tea. Hers was blissfully absent of any sort of dairy addition Sherlock noted with a small degree of resentment. "When did you start taking your tea with milk?" She took a small sip of her own tea.

Sherlock's mind tripped over the lies he had prepared. "I was feeling particularly nostalgic tonight. A mood that doesn't strike me all that often, I must confess." Even with his superb ability for folding the truth, his lie felt phoney to him. "I required a taste of home today." He held up the cup, as if it was a piece of evidence.

Watson's left eyebrow arched gracefully in disbelief. The smirk that played on her lips was driving Sherlock crazy. Not because she suspected him of folly; he'd long stopped concerning himself with those sorts of misconceptions with her. She knew who he was. There was no point in pretending to be anyone other than himself.

It was driving him crazy because this playful tease of a smile was the same smirk his Watson would often wear in his dreams. The ones that had plagued him since his night out a few weeks back. Eager to dispel such thoughts from his mind, Sherlock avoided her gaze and instead took a long draught of the tea. The milky taste made the top of his mouth go dry, but he continued the motion as to keep up appearances. He must not have been able to hide his facial contortion as well as he had first thought, for Watson started to laugh at him. Pushing herself off of the couch arm she had been leaning on, she walked over to Sherlock.

Taking the mug out of his hand, Watson placed her own in its place. "I just wanted to see if you'd actually drink it." She confessed, the laughter twinkled on her voice. "I'm sure that this cup will be more to your taste." Turning back around, Watson returned to the couch and settled back into her reading assignment.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of her the entire way.

Once she was back and situated into a comfortable position, Sherlock watched her drink his milky tea with ease. He looked down at the cup of tea in his own hand and brought it to his lips. And that's where it froze. It appeared that he was incapable of even the simplest of tasks. Sherlock returned the cup, tea untouched, to a free spot on the crowded desk. Without alerting Watson, Sherlock stood and left the room. It wasn't until he reached the roof that he began to breathe again. Resting his hands on the brick ledge on the edge of the roof, Sherlock had to come to face that the first solution he had devised to his predicament was no longer going to be applicable.

Sherlock wasn't one to run from his obstacles, but considering the circumstances and his deep lying desire for Watson to remain in the brownstone and continue to be his partner, there hadn't seemed like any other option. Sherlock had made the decision not to act on his impulses. Sherlock was under the impression if he continued in this act of ignorance, then they could remain in the same static state that they had always been in.

He had fully believed that his being could survive that sort of arrangement, provided it meant that Watson would stay. That his desires could be appeased with simply watching her from across the room. That the simple motion of being in the same place as she would be enough for him. It was now painfully obvious that his initial assessment to his limits couldn't have been further form the truth.

He wouldn't be content with just watching. He wasn't. It had only been a few weeks since his first observation and yet he already desired her with a fierceness that worried him. He wanted more. He needed more.

His hands itched to run down her bare skin. His mouth craved hers with an intensity that moved through Sherlock's being. Every noise she made drove him to the brink. The simple scent of her shampoo when she passed by too close was enough to incapacitate his facilities. While they worked Sherlock was pleased to find that he could regard her in every bit of the professional manner she deserved. His mind was too busy being occupied by the puzzle in front of them that it didn't have the capacity to worry itself with other trivial matters.

When they were alone however, it was a completely different situation. For every action she did in the privacy of their home would illicit responses in him that he had not felt in a long time.

This included feelings he had not even experienced with Moriarty. She had been the woman in his eyes for an immeasurable amount of time. Even after his illusions of the woman he had loved in Irene had been shattered and replaced, he still felt he would be incapable of finding someone to replace her. Something he could not have done, even if he had wished to. There would be no replacing her. One insurmountable heartache was more than Sherlock had been able to cope through. He did not wish to struggle through a second.

Turning around, Sherlock sat down on the ledge and felt the first nips of the upcoming winter cut through his sweater with the passing wind. Wrapping his arms around his body, Sherlock attempted to plan out the next course of action that he could take. Or at least he tried to. The only outcomes he seemed to envision were the ones that concluded with Watson leaving, and that was the only thing he could not bear. Sherlock shook his head violently and pounded his hands together roughly to get the circulation flowing again. There has to be a way.

Sherlock sat on the cold roof in deep, silent thought for over an hour. His eyes fixated on the now empty space that normally held the observation hive he had constructed himself to hold his bees. Once the temperature had started to hint towards the approach of the frozen season, he and Watson had packed them up and moved his, for lack of a better word, pets inside for the duration of the miserable New York winter. Even though his bees weren't out here, he still liked to come out here and contemplate his issues in front of them as if they were. It didn't hold the same effect to stare at them inside the house. He needed the background noise and outside exposure.

His ears perked up and his attention was broken when he heard the door to the roof crack open. Watson came walking in to the space, wrapped in a thick wool blanket she had excavated earlier in the day from one of the trucks residing in the living room.

"I was wondering where you went wandering off to." Watson announced as she started the walk over to where Sherlock sat. "Arabic riddle got the better of you?"

Sherlock hitched his breath as she sat down next to him on the ledge. "I'm stumped on one of the key words. It's either apocalypse or umbrella, and both provide very different conclusions to the riddle." A small smile appeared on his lips unwittingly as his proclamation made Watson chuckle. He quickly dispelled it before Watson could draw notice to it.

"You know," Watson nudged him slightly with her blanket covered elbow. "There is this nifty new invention called a dictionary."

Sherlock shook his head stoically. "No." He answered finitely. "That would be cheating." He watched Watson bundle up against the cold. "Things of importance should never be given anything other than your best."

Watson regarded his statement with a peculiar smile. As if his statement brought forth a significant response in her being. "I take it you're going to be staying out here for a while then, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded, and clamped his hands together in front of him. "It's no simple matter." He declared. "I mean to remain out here until the solution arises itself."

Standing, Watson unwrapped the blanket from around her and opened it so they could both share it. She draped the blanket over his shoulders before sitting back down and positing it around them. "I can't guarantee I'll stay out here all night with you until you've solved your problem… I can at least stay until you've stopped shivering."

"I am not shivering!" Sherlock declared adamantly, eager to dispel any sort of weakness in front of her.

"Come now," She teased him with a smile. "Even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't immune to the cold." She moved in closer, pulling the blanket tighter.

Sherlock was unable to ignore the physical closeness of their two bodies. He was indeed feeling a degree of heat exuding from his body as the added layer protected him further from the elements. But it was the warmth of his partner he desired, not that from the thick felted wool.

"I promise I won't distract you." Watson announced, as if to make her motives clear. "I just needed to get some fresh air."

"I assure you," Sherlock replied softly, almost to himself as he too pulled the blanket around him a little tighter. "You could never be any sort of a bother."

Watson remained on the roof with Sherlock in a comfortable silence for another forty minutes before she stated that she had taken in enough 'fresh air for the night' and retreated inside to retire. She left the blanket to Sherlock's keeping.

It disturbed him that he was no closer to uncovering a solution or creating a new course of action than he had been when he first came to the roof. But he could not deny the sense of pleasure he had obtained from simply sharing Watson's presence that evening. It was bizarre to him that he could achieve such a sense of calm simply from her being there. Taking the blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock inhaled the unmistakable scent that she had left in its fibres. He wrapped it tightly around him, and settled back into his thoughts. It was going to be a long night, but at least now he had a sweet memory to rely on as the hours pressed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leave comments to let me know how you felt about Sherlock. I got some good comments from the last chapter and would love to know if you feel I continued to bring him to justice, of I have made a grave mistake in continuing this ^^
> 
> Also, side note, it is currently Nanowrimo, so this story may or may not get an update frequently...it's been sneaking into my head and forcing me to write it when I should actually be working on my official word count. Oh fanfiction...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock concocts a scheme in which he and Watson will get to spend some time away from dead bodies...at least recently dead bodies. Watson however doesn't quite fall for the bait as well as he had hoped. What will he say to keep her from walking away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Nano2013 was a success, so I found a chuck of spare time to get a new chapter written for all of you lovely folk who have been reading and commenting for more! I hope you enjoy it~

"Okay..." Watson announced as she came to stand in the entrance way to the living room. She placed her hands on her hips and stared at Sherlock sitting down on the floor. "I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt yesterday when you refused to come down off of the roof. You were obviously caught up on some train of thought. I didn't interrupt you. When you finally decided to come back in, you were exhausted. I let you sleep. I know," Watson waved her hand expressively through the air. "I should have told you about the case, but I knew it was one I could do on my own and I thought you could use the rest. This, however …" Watson motioned to the dismembered skeletons displayed across the floor of the living room with a wave of her hands. "This is the worst punishment you could think for me? Not only is it more than a little bit disturbing… it is also a bit of a strange choice for you." She crouched down and examined one the bones. "Are these actual human bones?" She questioned him, the shock that should have been on her voice clearly absent. Instead there was a genuine tone of curiosity. "Where did you even get all of these?"

"Come now Watson," Sherlock addressed her from his crossed legged position in the centre of the spiralling bone pattern. His fingertips peaked together in front of him. "It's not as if you have never seen human bones before. I am still under the impression that all medical students have to take an anatomy class, do they not? Besides," Sherlock declared. "These boxes are not for you. I received a request from a mausoleum in New Orleans to organize this highly disorganized series of bones into individual skeletons. Evidently, their past practice of simply tossing the bodies in, one right after the other has become frowned upon. While it is beyond me as to why the families would care as to which pile of deceased human remains they give their useless prayers to, it is work. And while I generally dislike taking a paid case…" He picked up two femurs and started comparing their structures. "I do like puzzles." He gave Watson his best smile, though it felt much more like a smirk to him.

Watson regarded him oddly. She gently placed the bone back precisely where it had been resting previously and brought her hands to rest on her knees. Sherlock quickly averted his eyes when he realized just how short her dress was today. It didn't matter that she was wearing thick dark knit tights with her outfit… it still felt like prying to him. "Are you sure you're not upset with me?" She questioned him.

"Of course not!" Sherlock declared rather energetically; excessively so for him. He cringed internally for the exuberance, but carried on with the charade. "Whatever would have brought such a notion into your head?"

Watson stood back up. Sherlock's gaze went with her. "You just seem… different lately." She confessed. "Distant."

"Well, I assure you Watson. I am not cross with you. Not in the slightest." He directed his attention back to the bones before him. "Now, if you don't mind, I have between fifteen and thirty skeletons to differentiate between."

Watson took the dismissal as her cue to exit. "Well, if you need any help, I do know my bones." She started to walk out of the room and paused at the door frame. "You know where to find me." She added softly before she departed.

Sherlock waited until she had fully turned around to lift his gaze from the series of bones and watch her walk away. He would never tell her that he had accepted this task simply because he knew that her understanding of skeletal structures was of a high level. He wanted something that they could work together on that didn't involve a dead body. Sherlock looked down at the bones. Okay… he wanted to work on a task with Watson that didn't involve a recently deceased body.

He certainly couldn't just go out and tell her this straight to her face however. His pride as well as the underlying fear of her refusal forbid it. Now that she had shown an interest in the task that was directly related to her medical past, he could inquire into her knowledge at any time. Sherlock planned to wait an additional hour before approaching her for her expertise. Any amount of time less and she may pick up on his ploy, anything more and she may lose interest in the bones all together. It was just enough time for him to find a few troublesome bones that would just utterly refuse to piece together.

He had been actually teeming with feelings of the proud nature over Watson confidence in viewing herself ready to tackle a case on her own. Gregson had called him up earlier that morning with regards to the situation and Sherlock had in turn had directed him to Watson. He had feigned sickness, and told the Captain that he didn't wish to worry Watson about it. He doubted that his falsehood went unnoticed, but Gregson didn't bring it into question. Sherlock was setting forward another of his unspoken tests that he liked to place Watson through unknowingly. He wanted to see what her reaction to being called out on her own would be.

Would she come to him and inform him that they had a case despite only she was being asked to come in? Would she go forth and attempt it on her own merit? Sherlock wanted to gage her level of self confidence in her own abilities. He wanted to see if she viewed herself with the same level of admiration that he did.

She did not fail his expectations.

Sherlock had relished in his morning to the house alone. Especially after his day and night of thought on the roof. He had tried his best, but after Watson had left him alone with the blanket containing the softly sweet scent of her shampoo, he had been unable to keep his mind from wandering towards illicit fantasies.

It had hardly been the idle set of circumstances that would lead him to come to a constructive plan for his situation. Something would have to transpire eventually; and the sooner the better. For the longer Sherlock had to brood over his problem, the more elaborate his fantasies became. The more he waited to push any action forward, the more the real world began to dissolve around him and his imagination would materialize a more enjoyable reality for him.

This was not how he wished to continue his time with Watson. He did not wish to escape into his illusions and avoid reality. For that would involve ignoring the flesh and blood that made up the person of Joan Watson. She was a real human being, with thoughts and motions. As much as he enjoyed the Watson that would sneak into his thoughts, she was not the woman that he had fallen for so incomprehensibly. The very notion that he found himself desiring to embark on a relationship with her was more perplexing to him than he wished to confess. He had never really partaken in a 'relationship' before, per say. He had loved Irene, that much was certain… and even if what they had could be declared as a romantic relationship, if only by the loosest of definitions, what he desired to share with Watson transpired beyond that. Beyond all that he knew. It scared him to know that he didn't have the first clue as to how to go about finding that which he wished to find.

Having already picked out his 'troublesome articles' from the collection of assorted remains, Sherlock now had an hour of free time to work on just how exactly he was going to properly pose his confusion to her. Standing, he moved to the kitchen. Joan had said he would know where to find her. That meant that she was most likely holed up in her room on her computer. If she was going to read, she would have done it down here. If she was going to eat something, she would have said the kitchen. Watson wasn't a completely shielded person, perhaps a carried over trait from her last profession.

Sherlock put on the kettle and watched as the water slowly began to bubble to the surface. Watson must have just made herself a cup of tea a short while before, Sherlock deduced, for the water was heating up far faster than it should have from normal water temperatures. Sherlock grabbed the cup he had used at breakfast and poured hot water into it. He searched for the tea leaves he had used earlier that day and was disgruntle to find that he had tossed them into the rubbish bin. Apparently his mind was all over the place. Placing a scoop of new leaves into a basket, he submerged the device into his mug and moved to one of the armchairs.

All that's left to do is wait.

At exactly half past the hour, Sherlock had made his way up the stairs and down the hall to where Watson's room was located. He had knocked on her door with two sharp knocks and waited patiently for her to open it and admit him in. He showed her the mangled bone that he claimed to be having trouble placing.

She joined him down in the living room without question.

They then spent the next four hours organizing the remaining bones into complete specimens. Sherock stood with his arms loosely crossed, an easy smile on his lips as he studied the eighteen adult skeletons and three skeletons that hadn't matured out of adolescence. He had been right to choose this task. He had enjoyed himself immensely with Watson, and judging by her satisfied gaze on the skeletons that were stretched out before them, she had also enjoyed her evening with him. There had been easy chit chat, as well as Thai food to round out the time. It wasn't their normal routine, but Sherlock wouldn't have traded it for all the murders in the city.

Turning to him, she gave him a wide smile. "You know you didn't have to organize for a shipment of dismantled skeletons to take over our home if you wanted to spend some time with me." She teased him. Sherlock felt his smile drop away.

"I haven't the foggiest as to what you're implying." He addressed her stoutly. He knew that her statement had been poking fun at him, but he couldn't help but put up his defences.

Watson tilted her head to the side and regarded him with a look that Sherlock couldn't quite understand, and he was excellent at reading people. There was more to her gaze then simple concern.

"Sherlock," Watson started as she took a step closer. "I want you to tell me what's wrong."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong." Sherlock insisted defensively. He had known that Watson had been suspicious over something all day, but he hadn't expected her to keep pushing it.

When Watson took another tentative step towards him, Sherlock found himself taking a step in the opposite direction. She took another step, and he continued to retreat back. Watson furled her brow and began walking towards him. Minding the bones on the floor, Sherlock began to mirror her path. They continued in this childish dance until they were both standing on opposite sides of the table that graced the centre of the kitchen.

Exasperated, Watson crossed her arms in an agitated manner and stared him down with a look that Sherlock could only assume she had reserved specifically for him.

"Sherlock."

Watson."

His mimicking did not please her.

Watson's eyes narrowed and her voice took an angry tone. "Sherlock!"

"Watson!"

She slammed her open palms down against the table with a resounding *smack*. "Just tell me what's bothering you!" Her angry expression dissolved ever so slightly and concern took over. "I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"Joan!" Sherlock found himself shouting louder than he ever meant to across the room. He noted the shocked look in his partner's eyes. This was quite likely partially due to the fact that he had raised his voice, and possibly due to an even larger part concerning the fact that this was the first time she had ever heard him use her name without the surname 'Watson' preceding it. Sherlock lowered his voice, and dropped the edge that he had been unable to contain in the heat of the moment. "I am fully aware that I have been… distracted as of late. For that I apologize. There has been something rather severe on my mind." He found the confession slipping through his lips unwittingly. This was already more than he felt ready to share with her.

Watson had leaned forward ever so slightly in silence; conveying her interest without words. Sherlock found himself swallowing more often than he should. He tried his voice to continue and miraculously found it intact. "At this precise moment in time however, I do not feel comfortable discussing it. Not only with you, I assure you!" He added hurriedly when he saw Watson's expression fall ever so slightly at his words. "After I have had the adequate amount of time to try and sort through it all, you will be the only person I will even consider discussing it with." Sherlock found himself searching for Watson's eyes. He found them peculiarly absent of emotion. "I promise you." He added, if only to try and elicit a response out of her. The blankness to her face unnerved him.

She too was watching him. He could feel her eyes delving deep into him. She stared back at him in continued silence, contemplating his words. After a few brief moments of analysis she proceeded to nod once. "I'll trust your judgment Sherlock…" Her answer came through tight lips. "That doesn't mean I understand it." She shook her head slowly, her eyes dropped away from his face. "These last two months have been strange. You have changed and I can't figure out why. You go on as if you've become a deserted island and nothing I say seems to reach you." She brought a hand up and closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm worried about you Sherlock." She admitted. Dropping her hand, she looked straight at him. Sherlock watched as her lips curled downwards into a faint frown. "I'm on your side. Whatever it is you need help with, I'm here for you. I place my utmost confidence in you every day. I wish you would trust me with what troubles you little more."

Turning on her heel, Watson started to walk out of the room; a common action as of late. It seemed that Watson was always the one to leave first. The hurt look in her eyes froze Sherlock to the spot. His mouth opened and it remained opened. He wanted to shout at her to stop. That he needed to explain himself further, but those articulate words would not come out. He wished to calmly and collectively have this discussion with Watson. Instead, the only words he could piece together to stop Joan from walking away was:

"It's because I want you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhhh! What do you think Watson's response will be to Sherlock's abrupt confession? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Have a great day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock's sudden confession last chapter, just how will Joan react to his words?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear...I'm afraid that this gets to be a bit smutty this chapter ^^ Hopefully it's alright! Again, I am new to writing in the smut genre. Please be kind! Enjoy the new chapter! :) And let me know what you think in the comments.

"It's because I want you!"

Watson stopped short at Sherlock's words. It hadn't mattered that they were mere feet apart, Sherlock had still shouted the words at her. It was as if he was afraid that she wouldn't hear his words any other way. When she slowly turned to see if this was yet another one of his mnemonic tricks, he continued.

"You what?" The suspicion on her voice was thinly veiled. Sherlock had expected as much. He hadn't exactly been kind to her in ways of seductive teasing. Even their first meeting had resulted in him being unable to resist the temptation.

"Want may be a vastly understated word." He confessed. He wasn't sure where to go from this point. He hadn't planned this out and didn't know what to say. He spoke slowly. "One that I spouted out in the heat of the moment…" Sherlock moved slowly from behind the table that he had been taking refuge behind. He took a moment to wipe some imaginary dust off of the surface, purposely avoiding Watson's stare. The words were coming easier now. All the things that he had wished to say were flowing out unabatedly. "Want, desire, crave, long, covet, yearn for, wish repeatedly for despite not believing in the power of wish, ache down to my core to simply share a look, something that I require for my daily being… there is not enough words in the English language for me to properly express the proper combinations of words for the feelings that I feel for you." Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet Watson's and was pleased to see that she was watching him intently. He locked his eyes to hers.

"That's not to say that I simply crave you in a sexual manner. There is no simple in any of this." Sherlock refused to break eye contact with Joan. Even when she lowered her eyes momentarily, she would return her gaze back to his searching eyes after a few moments. Now that he had obtained it, he wasn't going to release her until he had finished saying all he needed to say. "That is however, an aspect to it…" He took a step forward, as if to animate his honesty. "How you would look wrapped around me... In what way would your face contort as I run my fingers along the tender parts of your skin… What voice you would use in the dark privacy shared by only us… Would I claim you as mine? Or would you claim me as yours? These are all questions that can only be answered by the intimacy of lover. Something we could never have obtained before… never before this."

Sherlock took another step forward. He mentally congratulated Watson for steeling herself. She hadn't moved an inch she he had started his confession. He had even in fact noticed a slight reddening of her cheeks as his voice continued to drop in tone and become increasingly huskier. Comforting evidence, to say the least.

"It would be an oversight if I was to stop there." Sherlock looked down at Watson, and she lifted her head to maintain their eye contact. "For as much as I long to use every ounce of the skills I have obtained through years of seduction, I also find myself wishing that I could wipe my proverbial slate clean. You make me wish to experience everything again for the first time. For when I compare myself to you, I find myself wanting. I find that I now regret particular actions that have occurred over the time from when I first met you, until this very point… and I regret very little of what I've done in my entire life. These regrets now exist, not many… mind you, but I do have my regrets. For the longest time, slipping into the painfully sweet grips of my addiction had been one of them. Not any more however. You see, I see things a bit differently now. Not clearer, and certainly not through the same haze which blinded me before. Put into pure and simple words, it is different. It shocked me to realize that you were the sole factor responsible for this new found change in my character. For now, despite wishing for a stronger moral character for which to impress you with, I can no longer regret any decision I've made in the past. You see, every choice and action I have made and taken have all lead me to a specific destination… here and now, where I stand today…"

Sherlock paused. There was so much more he wished to tell her. Like how he viewed her as less of a student, someone to mold and train, and more as an invaluable equal. That he enjoyed having her share his space. That he couldn't imagine the brownstone without her. That the seconds of the minutes felt both terrifyingly short as well as impossibly long when she was near and just as painfully inconsistent when she had gone. That everything he criticized her for were the things about her that he couldn't get out of his head. And that everything foolish he had commented on about her views on relationships had slowly shifted into the things he now longed for.

Like how the deepest, darkest secret desire he had in his possession was to simply wake next to her. To have someone to share a bed with for something more than just the acts of sexual copulation. To have their legs intertwined as they fought over the position of the blanket. Watson would try to sleep under it, while he couldn't stand the constriction of it. He wouldn't want the fluffy down of her comforter anywhere near him, yet at the same time he couldn't stand the thought of not sharing the connection of her skin. He would brave even the thickest of blankets for a moment like that.

He wanted to tell her how she wasn't his better half. Not by any stretch of the imagination! For that would imply that he was half as good as she was. He was not even close to that. If he had to put her value to him into a fraction, the closest he could come up with was that she was his better 23/25ths. Without her he was not a full person, not by a long shot. There wasn't an appropriate numerical variation that he could think of to properly describe the level of affection he felt for Watson. Nor did he wish to find one.

"And where is it that you stand?" Joan's voice drifted softly out of her lips at Sherlock's lull.

Sherlock wet his lips with his tongue as he postulated the words that would come out of his mouth next; for they would be the determining factor in everything. Whether or not he would laugh this off as a joke and salvage the friendship they had constructed… or if he would do the thing that had been on his mind, unrelenting in its obsession, and finally tell her how he felt and face the consequences one way or another. Watson was watching him closely, intensely. He wasn't sure what outcome she wished for him to arrive upon. Her face was a practiced blank state. Sherlock had to resist the surge of proud emotions that welled up inside him. He had taught her that. She was urging him towards some sort of verdict, but Sherlock had hardly the nerve to try and deduce as to which it may be. Sherlock swallowed and made a decision.

"Here… with you."

His confession, now finally cumulated with words, he reached his hand out and placed it on the side of Watson's face and cupped the cheek. In one swift moment, he tilted her face up and brought his lips down upon hers.

The kiss lasted but a moment. Sherlock released Watson before she had a chance to react. There was one thing that he would never do, and that would be force his partner into performing an act she was uncomfortable with. Instead he rested his forehead on hers and retained the intimate space.

"I know that I am not the type of person that you desire…" Sherlock whispered, his voice raw with emotion. The fear of rejection was strong, as was the vulnerability that he had placed himself into. The words came out, but only after much difficulty. "Nor that I wish to pressure you into any sort of action. I needed my feelings to be known. That despite my best intentions, despite my knowledge, experience, and my fervent belief in illusion of such emotions…I find myself doing what I thought was utterly impossible." Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time since he had dared to kiss the woman standing before. He found Watson staring right back up at him, drawing in the words as he spoke them. "Watson…I have fallen indubitably in to a well of emotions I had believed myself cut off from."

Watson's eyes had a twinkle to them. A wave of desire washed over Sherlock as he stared into them. It was a look he was not accustomed to.

"And what, pray tell, would that emotion be?" She asked light heartedly, full well knowing what it was that Sherlock had tried to say in oh so many words. She knew that he had gone out of his way to avoid the direct wording, and yet she was going to make him say it.

Uncertain, but hopeful as to what her teasing was eluding to, Sherlock slide his head down so that his lips now brushed over her ear. "What I mean to say," he began in the softest of words; a startling cry from his shouted declaration mere minutes before. "Miss Watson, is that I do believe myself in love with you."

She shivered ever so slightly from the feeling as his lips moved against her earlobe in the most minuet of fashion. He took it as an invitation to try more. He started with a soft kiss below her earlobe, and a gentle nip with his lips along the bottom of the ear. His heart skipped a beat when he felt Watson's arms move around him; her hands pulling him closer all the while staying locked to his back. The soft kiss on her ear, turned into a series of small kisses, each lasting a minuscular moment longer the one previous. By time he had reached the hollow where her neck gracefully met her shoulders, Sherlock became aware of Watson's hands gripping the sides of his shirt tightly. He smiled into the hollow and proceeded to lavish the area with his tongue. He liked the way Watson quivered ever so slightly under the motion. Sucking the area, perhaps just a tad stronger than he should have, he enjoyed the soft hitch that Watson emitted.

He tried to pull away momentarily, only to find that Watson had rooted him to the spot. An act to which he found himself completely fine with. Bending back down, Sherlock captured Watson's lips with his own. This time when he kissed her, he found her eagerly kissing him back. Her lips were soft against him, and they carried faintly the scent of mint. Unable to control himself past the point of restraining, he probed her lips with the tip of his tongue and found her lips opening willingly.

Sherlock found himself having difficulty breathing as their tongues fought for dominance within the space between their two mouths. The ebb and tide, the back and forth, she gave and he took without question. He wanted more. He needed more. Sherlock reached his hands down her slides, feeling her gentle curves through the soft fabric of her dress. It was then that the first issue in his exploration of his partner came to a hurdle.

Watson was just too short.

If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the act of trailing kisses down Watson's throat towards her collar bone simply to hear the soft mewing that escaped from her partially parted lips, Sherlock may have laughed at the preposterousness of it all. It was no mystery that he often took home strong and self-assured woman. He had bedded short woman before… but never one as short as Watson. At least he knew how to remedy this problem.

Slowly drifting his hands down her sides, Sherlock's hands pulled around to the back of her thighs. As if anticipating his act, Watson moved her hands that had been fixated on crumpling the edges of his shirt to looping around his neck. Once he was sure that she was secure, Sherlock easily lifted her lithe frame and gently placed her back against the nearby wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist tightly, her skirt folding over at a very unflattering angle; not that Sherlock was complaining. She didn't give him more than a moment to regain his position before she attacked his lips with her own in a fervor that he hadn't thought possible. Her lips pulled and tugged, her tongue danced on his, her hands pulled up on his shirt. It was only then that Sherlock realized that they were both far too clothed for what was precipitating currently. Pulling his hands back from where they had been sensually stroking the undersides of Watson's bare thighs, she allowed him enough freedom to pull back enough to yank the sweater off over his head. He threw it over his shoulder and did not care where it land. Immediately Watson's lips were once more taking hostage of his own. Her hands set to their own task of painstakingly of unbuttoning every single one of the buttons that made up the line that attached the shirt to his body. He missed the feeling of having them run through his hair.

Taking advantage of the wall as a rest, Sherlock took the moment to slowly slide his hands up the hem of her dress and guide the white fabric off of her body. The flowy fabric moved like water as she finished his act and moved the piece over her head. Her hair, loose, cascaded down after it was pulled free of the fabric like a waterfall. She quickly gathered the long ebony hairs together and pulled one end over her shoulder. She stared back at him with doe eyes. He took the moment to drink in her appearance.

She reached back down to kiss Sherlock again, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. His hands were positioned on Watson's hips, his thumbs making small circles in the soft curve that moved up her body. His mouth was working hard to remove the straps of her bra from her shoulders.

Watson arched her back into the motion, creating a smooth line along her body, ending with her head reaching back and knocking gently against the wall. Sherlock was well into the task, when Watson's hands lightly came into contact on both sides of his face. She directed his gaze back up to her.

"Not here." She whispered; her voice heavy with a lust that Sherlock was pleased to see she shared.

He couldn't find the words in him to speak. He was too drunk on the sweet, mild taste of Watson's skin to prepare a response. So, for his response, he simply nodded and moved his hands from Watson's sides to a firmer position; one arm underneath and the other across her back. He made sure she was perfectly secure before he started to carry her to and upwards the stairs.

While he didn't mind, not on any level, what Watson was doing with her lips and tongue on his neck… he did find it highly distracting. So much in fact, that her ministrations nearly caused him to trip over a step… twice. When they had reached the landing, and he was finally able to return Watson's kisses, Sherlock was faced with a conundrum: whose room were they supposed to go to?

Watson gave him no sort of hint as to which she would prefer or which would be more comfortable for her. Along the short journey up the stairs she had managed to finally undo all the buttons of his shirt, and the crisp blue-stripped linen had fluttered to the floor as the had moved. Her hands were currently tracing the lines of the many tattoos that graced his skin. He had other consorts show a curiosity to the works he had made into his skin, but never with such an intimate fascination. He reluctantly released her mouth as she pulled back. Moving to his shoulder, she moved her tongue over the ink lines and traced the image back onto his body. It was as if she was trying to see if she could taste the different colours that were painted onto his skin. Sherlock released a shutter as one of her nails sent a shiver down his spine. He made his decision.

Opening the door to his room, he noted the singular moment of hesitation in Watson's breathing. He wasn't wholly surprised. It was after all the very first time she had ever set foot in his room. That had been a long standing condition of their living arrangement. He'd just as much prefer to sleep on the couch or floor in the living room than in his own bed, but having the space did serve its purpose occasionally… this being one of those times.

After all, if he wanted Watson to know that he expected her to discover every aspect as to who he was; he would need to take down these walls as well.

He placed her as carefully as he could manage on his bed. He pushed away the comforter and sheets with one hand and laid her down on the empty space. Once he had her on his bed, Sherlock felt a surge of fear course through his veins. Lifting one of his hands, he moved it over her body, mere centimetres away from the skin but not touching her. It wasn't that he was afraid that she would break. The way she looked up at him, her ebony hair fanned out on his pillows, he knew that she was made of stronger stuff than that.

No… what he feared was that at any minute, like the minute he touched her now that he had arrived at the moment he had for so long desired, he would awaken and find that this had all been a lust filled dream. One formed on the days and nights of yearning for what he could not have. What was to prove to him that this was in fact happening to him, here and now? It wouldn't be the first time he had fantasized something so elaborate within his own mind. What would happen then? As Sherlock stared down at the one woman he considered exceptional, he knew without doubt that it would be he who broke.

Sensing a change in her now sudden partner, Sherlock watched with a frozen stare as she gracefully sat up in his bed and lifted herself up to her knees. She was nowhere near eye level with him, but it brought back that level of familiarity that they shared. She brought her hand to his chest and placed it on daintily. It then proceeded to slide up until it was on his shoulder. He closed his eyes momentarily to revel with only his sense of touch to the sensation of it. He opened his eyes again to find Watson staring back into his expectantly.

She wrapped her other arm over his shoulders as well, pulling him in close. Their bodies pressed against each other in a calm tenderness Sherlock was unfamiliar with. He placed his hands on her sides and felt the heat emit from them.

"How do I know that this is real?" He asked, the fear and dread on this voice completely unmasked for perhaps the first time.

Watson removed her arms from his shoulders and brought her hands to his face. She placed one on either cheek and forced him to bring his head down to hers. She rested her forehead against his and whispered, "All you need to know," her voice drifted into his ears on an easy current. "Is that if you don't kiss me now, I will not forgive you."

If there was one thing that Sherlock could not abide by, it was being wrote into Watson's book of disfavour.

His passion renewed and fears vanquished, he seized Watson's lips with his own. Once more the struggle for dominance took over yet again. He was only vaguely aware of Watson removing his belt and unbuttoning his pants as he climbed into bed with her. His pants soon follow the way of his belt. He pauses momentarily, poised on top of Watson, her eyes staring back up at him expectedly. He draws a hand down along the line of her body. He likes the way she shivers as he moves down her flat stomach. Again she pulls him down to her mouth, as if unable to survive without constant connection with him. Something that he was perfectly happy to provide.

He wanted to make the night as similar to all the previous times he had envisioned this act. He wanted to make it special for Watson, to prove just how truly important she was to him. With every stroke and touch she gave him however, he found his resolve close to the breaking point. He found himself unable to create an active procedure. All that mattered was where his hands were. He could focus on nothing more than his immediate thoughts. Even those were quickly destroyed as Watson's finger nails gently scrapped and pulled at his skin. An involuntary gasp escaped from his own lips when Watson released a deep moan as he took her bare breast in his mouth and worked the nipple with his tongue. He knew that she had felt his response to her vocalization, for after that point her breathing became heavier, and her soft moans more common. He continued to suckle and tease her breasts with his mouth and hand, while the other worked at slowly removing the only piece of fabric that separated the two of them.

Watson's hips arched towards him as his fingers lazily drifted over the area. He teased her as they gently traced the sides of her legs before moving to where it was he couldn't stop them from going. Her opening was already slick with fluid, her folds took him with no effort. He felt the walls tighten around his fingers as Watson's breath hitched suddenly. He had wished to make their first evening together last the night, but it was evident that neither one of them would be able to contain themselves much longer. He moved his fingers around in a slow pattern, keeping his eyes locked on Watson's expression. She had closed her eyes as soon as he had started playing with her. Now with every motion, her face would take a new twinge. In. Her forehead would wrinkle ever so slightly. Around in a circle. Her eyebrows would shoot up before returning down. He could have watched her manifestations of desire all night; and perhaps he would another night. Tonight however, he wasn't going to be able to stop with playful teasing.

Leaving her breasts, Sherlock trailed a line of kisses down her stomach and brought himself between her legs. Watson's breathing had become more and more rapid the closer he got. He had barely begun to taste her when she had yanked his head up violently.

"Enough." She said between gasps.

She didn't say what it was that she needed him to do, nor did Sherlock need her to. He gave her one last flick with his tongue, causing her hips to convulse against him. As he moved back up Watson's body, her hands impatiently dragged him back to her lips. Her once soft lips had become hot and partially bruised under the intense and ferocious actions they had shared. Sherlock nibbled gently on one of her swollen lips, she opened her mouth keenly. Their tongues began the back and forth dance that never seemed to finish.

He guided himself towards her and slowly entered, waiting for any sign of distress from Watson. All he got was a series non- too gentle of scratches, which did not help with the already insurmountable about of desire he was feeling at that precise moment. Pulling away from Watson, he was going to search out a verbal permission to continue from the woman lying beneath him, but one look from her eyes and Sherlock new that it would be entirely unnecessary.

He began the motion of moving back and forth slowly at first, waiting for Watson's hips to match his cadence. It did not take long to achieve that level of precision. Her rocking hips forced him to catch up to her. There pace continued to increase until he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out. When he suddenly felt a spasm trigger through Watson, his eyes opened enough to see her watching him and his efforts to keep his face from contorting too much. Her legs wrapped around him extra tightly as she whispered, "Sherlock."

He was finished. His entire body wracked against the convulsions his body experienced as he worked hard to catch his breath. Watson's once almost painful scratching of his back returned to gentle caresses. Moving besides her, Sherlock couldn't resist stealing one last kiss from her. He pressed his lips against hers, almost chaste like. She returned the simple peck with a smile. The fervour had fuelled their actions had dissipated for the night, but from the way neither of them seemed capable to breathing, let alone stand, he had a feeling she wasn't about to change her mind on him tonight.

They lay there, softly panting for several minutes, spent beyond articulation. It was taking all of their facilities to simply attempt to return their breathing back to a functional level. Watson was the first of them to move. She rolled on to her side and faced Sherlock, a look of contentment across her face. "I didn't get to say this before, but I am yours… You do know that, don't you?" Her voice contained that perfect cocktail mix of seduction and knowledge that drove Sherlock utterly mad.

"There is still so much I need to tell you." Sherlock stated matter of factually, his voice soft. If she noticed that he did not answer her question, she did not show it. Sherlock reached his arm out and proceeded to drag his fingertips slowly along Watson's bare side. For all the times he had fantasized about doing this exact motion, he had never expected it to feel like this. He adored the way her eyes fluttered shut under the motion. "This all happened much differently that I had anticipated it to occur. I haven't managed yet to profess just how to explain what it is that you mean to me. To the fact that you, I hope you'll forgive me for saying this, but you have captivated me beyond words."

Watson smiled up at him fondly. It wasn't often that Sherlock spoke in sweet words, and it most certainly wasn't to just anyone. To watch her expressions as he spoke however, made Sherlock feel as if he should perhaps change his habit of it.

She placed a hand on the side of his cheek; he turned his face into it and placed a tender kiss on to her palm. "And I haven't even begun to explain myself to you… but that is the wonderful thing about what we have. There will always be tomorrow." Sliding over on the bed so that she was curled up in the open space of Sherlock's arms, she raised her head up and placed a single, soft kiss on his lips; a sharp contrast from the passionate kisses they had been sharing up to this point. At this precise moment though, Sherlock wasn't sure which of the two he preferred. When Watson released him, pulling her tender lips away, she sank down in to his arms; which he wrapped protectively around her.

"You don't need to say everything all at once." Her sleepy voice drifted up to him. "I expect you to keep telling me how much I mean to you for a good long time. Maybe tomorrow I'll also get my chance."

Feeling the chill that was moving over Watson's naked body now that their body temperatures were once more returning to normal, Sherlock reached down awkwardly and pulled the blanket over both of them. Unwilling to release his hold on her, the act involved a little bit of foot kicking action to get the blanket near his hands. He felt Watson's lips press into a smile against his bare chest. He lay there for several minutes. He didn't move again until he was certain that Watson was in fact sleeping. He set his breathing to the slow and steady rhythm of hers. Moving his head in close to hers, Sherlock had one last think to tell her before he too escaped into the welcomed sleep.

"I cannot wait until tomorrow to say this." He started, his voice carried gently on the softest of whispers he could manage, ever fearing that he might wake her. These were however, words that needing saying now, regardless of who heard them. They were words that he wished to say out loud at least once.

"If anyone belongs to anyone, then Joan… I am truly yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! Sherlock finally got to let his feelings known. What did you think of Joan's reaction? Would you like to know what was going through her mind as well?
> 
> Let me know if you want another chapter! :)
> 
> Have a great day!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you wish to have the story continued with the solution that Sherlock conceives for his situation. It can be left as a one-shot, of if there is interest I can continue it ^^ Please let me know!


End file.
